


No one comes to the beach in September

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mycroft hates the beach, Reader hates Mycroft's spy cameras, Rough Sex, Strong Language, Trust Issues, some violence though the threat of violence is depicted more than the actual violence is depicted, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 22:50:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4198017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and you have been struggling in your relationship lately. So when you book a weekend away together along the secluded Welsh coastline you hope that things will improve. But you soon find out that, that won't be the case. For no one comes to the beach in September.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No one comes to the beach in September

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I hope you like this. It is a bit darker than my other Mycroft/Reader fics though so please do take note of the above warnings in the tag. Also if you feel that the rating should be raised then please let me know.

There’s a brief noise at the door, before the lock clicks open. 

 

You stride out from where you've been packing your suitcase in your bedroom, whilst your heart begins to quicken its pace in worry, just as Mycroft enters with a harried look upon his face. 

 

As soon as you see each other you both stop dead. 

 

Then at your questioning expression he states as his eyes lock upon yours, “I just bumped into John, he said that you’d told him that you weren't going to be here this weekend. The funny thing was I believed we had plans together? Has something happened?”

 

You swallow now and lay down the top that is still in your hands across the arm of the settee, before you run a flustered hand through your hair. Then you look back at Mycroft to see that he is watching you with a calculating expression on his face. So, “It was supposed to be a surprise,” you breathe. 

 

“A surprise?” he asks as he folds his arms and quirks an eyebrow up. 

 

You swallow again, then, “Yes,” you tell him, before you go across to pull his hands down into yours. They’re stiff and his shoulders are hard with tension, whilst his eyes are firm and unwavering as they lock upon yours. So to try and make things better you explain, “I booked us a cottage on the Welsh coast. I know it’s a long way to go just for the weekend but I thought”-

 

“You’re right,” he says evenly as he tugs his hands free from yours now, “It _is_ a long way to go, and I can’t just leave London with my work, I thought you understood that”-

 

“But you promised me this one weekend. You said that unless another war started or there was some other such big emergency, that this weekend was ours. So what does it matter where we are?” you interrupt him desperately. 

 

He frowns at you now, his eyes cold like a shark’s, and you wish that they’d soften with the rare emotion that they usually hold within them when he looks at you. Then he lifts a sudden hand and without being able to help it you flinch. He hesitates and something flashes in his eyes, before he completes its journey to run it through his hair in a frustrated fashion. Then he lets it drop back to his side once more as he tells you with an exasperated expression on his face, “You know I hate surprises.”

 

“Then don’t come,” you tell him fervently, before you turn your back on him and stalk a couple of paces away, folding your arms as you go. You hear a little breath catch in his throat now but nonetheless you continue, “I’ll go on my own. I just thought it’d be nice, _romantic_ even…but if you’d rather work again, then, fine”- and then you break off as your body stirs with a jolt at the feel of his hands as they come to rest carefully on your waist. 

 

“F/N, look at me,” he murmurs in your ear and so you exhale a bit, before you spin around, which causes your body to be flush against his. But you feel far from amused with him right now so you exhale again, before you take a little step back. His hands drop back down to his sides and then he sighs, before he asks, “Is this _really_ that important to you?”

 

“Yes,” you blurt out as your e/c eyes flash angrily. 

 

“Then”-

 

“I don’t want you to do this just because it’s important to me, I want you to do it because it’s important to you too, Mycroft!” you say crossly, waving your hands a little and the way in which you just said his name makes him let out a little breath as if you’d just punched him, before as you let out a little sound of frustration and run both of your hands through your hair, he watches you cautiously. 

 

Then when you don’t say anything and just breathe hard with your hands now fisted by your sides he attempts, “Of course spending time with you is important to me,” and he raises his hands in supplication now as you raise your head to look at him, before, “This has just come as a bit of a surprise that’s all. I’d rather envisaged us spending time here, but if you’d rather”-

 

“I just wanted you to myself for one weekend, is that so wrong?” you interrupt him now because he’s starting to waffle. 

 

A small smile breaks out across his face now, before he informs you firmly, “I can assure you my dear, that the feeling’s entirely mutual.”

 

And he says it with such conviction that it makes you smile a little mischievously, which encourages him enough to step forwards and kiss you on the lips. He barely has enough time though to press his lips firmly against yours, let alone to try and deepen things when you pull away and push him back by his chest a little. 

 

Then, “The cottage?” you ask him tentatively and he smiles a little now, before he nods and then his smile grows a fraction more at the excited expression that takes over your face at getting your own way. 

 

But, “For now I must return to work. I really shouldn't be here as it is,” he says, getting back to a business-like fashion now, then, “I’ll pick you up this evening?” he asks.

 

And you nod now, though, “Finish early if you can won’t you? It’s going to take long enough to get there as it is,” and he nods, before he kisses you again. 

 

This time it is him who intends for it to be a brief one but you cup the back of his neck to draw him to you again when he begins to pull away.

 

So, “F/N? Mmm”- he gets out, before your lips press against his once more and he can feel the stirrings of something in his trousers and feel his eyes almost beginning to cloud over at the feel of you so close. But _work_ , a persistent voice reminds him; he’s supposed to be at work. You bite down on his lip now, your hands combing through his hair and he groans a little as he forgets himself again. There’s a meeting isn't there? This afternoon. He’s supposed to be preparing for it now. He’s supposed to be- _Christ!_ He thinks as your tongue flicks into his mouth and all his senses are tingling now and he’d very much like to lift you up into his arms and have your legs wrapped tightly around his waist as he takes you to your bedroom and he groans again, his trousers feeling tight as he finally draws back from you with a gasp. 

 

“Perhaps we can continue this over the weekend?” you ask him and his head spins somewhat again, before he nods, then _work_! The voice says again and he stumbles backwards now, before he turns and hurries out. 

 

* 

 

By the time you leave London it is already dark and Mycroft, who has procured one of his black cars for the occasion, ends up murmuring a thousand apologies to you for being so late as you both slide into it after putting your luggage safely into the boot. 

 

“It’s fine,” you tell him wearily, whilst one of his hands comes to settle around your waist. 

 

And so you rest your head on his shoulder now, before you close your eyes. 

 

*

 

“F/N?” a soft voice disturbs your slumber, and although you make a sound in your throat in acknowledgement of it you don’t open your eyes because you’re too comfortable to and there’s something very nice and warm beside you and so you snuggle closer to it now, before your hand moves up to explore it. 

 

The material feels soft underneath your fingers and you caress it for a moment, before your fingers run into something circular and firmer. It’s a button you realize and your fingers undo it automatically now, before you turn closer towards it as both of your hands reach to push the shirt back a bit so that they can explore the warm skin underneath. A groan filled with desire escapes your lips now as you feel the familiar texture of the skin beneath your boyfriend’s collarbone. _Mycroft._ He must have stayed the night. Or perhaps you stayed at his because this doesn't feel like your bed. Actually this doesn't feel much like a bed after all, you come to think as you become more aware of your position, so perhaps you both fell asleep on the settee. And, feeling curious now, your lips instinctively part a little as your hand moves up around the curve of his neck to his jaw, before it comes to rest on his cheek and as your body surges up a little your eyes finally flick open. 

 

A little breath escapes Mycroft now but the first thing you notice is that he looks embarrassed and you can’t understand why. That is until you realize that you’re neither at your flat nor Mycroft’s. Rather you’re in a car and you catch sight of the driver’s deliberately averted eyes in the windscreen mirror now, before you blink a little in confusion as your hand slips automatically off Mycroft’s face. 

 

Then, “We've arrived my dear,” Mycroft tells you gently and you look at him for a moment, still puzzled, until-

 

The _cottage!_ You remember and then your body is turning to look around but all you can see is darkness, and as the driver opens his door all you can feel is the cold air on your bare arms, which causes your body to shiver violently so you nestle closer to Mycroft. 

 

Mycroft slips out of his jacket at once and moves to put it around your shoulders, then he turns to get out of the car and you slide across to follow suit. 

 

The cold air seems to hit your throat like a swarm of angry bees as you step out of the car and close the door behind you, and for a moment all you can do is take a deep gulp of air, whilst you tug Mycroft’s jacket around you more securely and wish that you’d chosen something warmer to wear than the white mid-length dress that you did. Then, as Mycroft helps the driver with the luggage, you look up as your breath hovers in the air before you. A thousand stars at least shine above you in the deep navy sky and between them and the soft, steady noise of the waves as they hit the sand just yards somewhere off to the side of you the whole place feels rather magical. You smile now because this feels right, _so_ right, and you’re so glad you came after all. 

 

Then, “Why don’t you come inside my dear? You’ll freeze,” comes Mycroft’s voice and you turn to look at him now. 

 

He’s standing in the doorway of the cottage, a small triangle of light half-bathing his face in light, his expression a little concerned as he looks at you. The driver meanwhile is making his way back to the car and so they must have already taken the luggage inside when you were staring at the beautiful sky you realize. So you take one last look at the star filled sky and all the hope and promise it fills you with, before you go across and duck underneath Mycroft’s arm as he holds the door open for you. 

 

The kitchen and you suppose the living room area too is a cosy sort of combination with the kitchen side of things to the right and at the back. And though there is nothing fancy, just a fridge, a sink with two counters either side of it, and an oven it is more than enough to fill your weekend needs. A small wooden table covered with a yellow and blue checked tablecloth lies between that area and the old, uncomfortable looking settee, which is a faded maroon colour. Whilst a single bulb hangs down from a string over the table like flypaper and a tiny square grey television set lies before the settee on top of a grey plastic stand. Just in front of you meanwhile is the wooden door to the narrow and rickety stairs that lead up to the single bathroom and bedroom. 

 

“Do you like it?” Mycroft asks you once you finish looking around and your eyes come to fix on him once more. 

 

“Yes,” you get out, before a yawn escapes you and he smiles at you now. 

 

Then, “We should get some sleep,” he concedes and so you drag your luggage upstairs after him, whilst he takes his. 

 

Your head feels heavier and more tired than it did before as you stumble into the bedroom and catch sight of the double bed with its plush white duvet and inviting looking pillows. So you barely take in the wooden arched beams or the wooden wardrobe and set of drawers along with the slightly faded dark blue carpet. You just dump your luggage into a corner and bend down to dig out your pyjamas, whilst Mycroft goes off to use the bathroom’s facilities. You can’t even summon the energy for that though so after you change you just slide into bed and close your eyes. 

 

Mycroft’s arms slip around your waist a few moments later and you smile, before you make a satisfied noise in your throat, and you’re just thinking that maybe you _do_ have enough energy for something after all, when sleep catches you in its arms again. 

 

*

 

The sun hits your eyes and makes your forehead wrinkle in discomfort over the pounding tiredness in your head. You’re the type of person that unfortunately needs a lot of sleep in order to function properly and whilst, in one sense, you did get a lot last night between the car and here, it wasn't the most restful. So naturally as you open your eyes you feel a bit sluggish and out of sorts. That is until you remember where you are and then you sit up hurriedly, jostling the mattress as you do so, which causes Mycroft’s hand to slide off your waist and hit the bed with a thump, before a groan of protest leaves his lips. So you look down at him now. His eyes are still shut, in fact they’re _screwed_ shut in a most determined fashion and you smile a little now. Whilst his eyelashes look beautiful in the light as do his lips, which are slightly parted. And you’re bending down to kiss him when his hand moves to try and find your waist once more. It doesn't quite find purchase where it intended though and instead it comes to rest on the curve of your chest and when Mycroft’s eyes flutter open and a lazy, satisfied smile plays around his lips as he comes to see his mistake you smile back at him for a moment. 

 

Then your heart skips a beat as his hand begins to move slowly now, caressing your breast over the thin material of your pyjama top, before suddenly he’s swinging upwards and his lips are coming home to rest on yours. 

 

You kiss him back for a moment but then as his hands begin to creep up underneath your pyjama top you draw back from him with a bit of a gasp. 

 

Not satisfied with you pulling away his head darts forwards again with his eyes still shut, but you rest a finger on his lips now and his eyes flutter open, before he leans back a little with some confusion in his eyes. 

 

Then, “I thought”- he begins as your hand falls back down. 

 

But, “Not now,” you tell him because you don’t want to spend the day in bed, even if the thought of doing certain _activities_ with him does of course appeal to you. So as he looks disappointed you ask, “Don’t you want to see where we actually are?” and the gleam of excitement comes back in your eyes now at the thought of being somewhere new with him so you swing out of bed and go around to look out of the window. 

 

The sky looks like a painting with its mix of light blues, yellows and pinks and with the beach and sea so close, just a tiny bit beyond the broken wooden fence with its tilted poles that barely separates the cottage from it all, you itch to explore it all. 

 

You turn back to Mycroft now, your lips slightly parting as you do so, perhaps to tell him about how beautiful it all is but he’s lying down in bed again, his eyes closed. Something shifts uncomfortably in your stomach. So to try and quash it you swing your head back to look out of the window. A little breath leaves your lips as you do so and you begin to feel better at once so you turn back and get changed swiftly. 

 

*

 

By the time Mycroft comes downstairs you've already had your breakfast and are beginning to pack a picnic for later on. 

 

You turn to look at him, feeling pleased that he’s finally up, but you frown at once upon doing so. For Mycroft is wearing a white shirt and smart black trousers. So, “Are you _really_ going to wear that?” you ask him and you can’t help but feel a little irritated with him. 

 

He stops approaching you and just looks at you for a moment, before he plucks at his shirt with his hand and then looks at you again as he asks, “What’s wrong with it?” with a quizzical expression on his face. 

 

You sigh a little, then, “Well, they’re hardly beach clothes are they?” you say, whilst you wave your hands a little. But he doesn't say anything now he just averts his eyes and looks a little uncomfortable. So, “Did you only bring smart clothes?” you ask him. 

 

“I”- he begins, biting at his lip a little, before he swings his head to look at you, then, “I wasn't really thinking, I just threw a few things in because I was in a hurry to get to you.”

 

You sigh again because it is just like Mycroft to be worrying so much about making you mad that he ends up making you madder in the process. Then, “Fine, all right, you’ll just have to be careful then,” you tell him, before you turn back to packing the picnic. 

 

But, still worried, Mycroft comes across to kiss you on your cheek now, before, “Maybe this can be my own casual look?” he says as he lifts up your hand in his and guides it to the top two buttons, which you undo with a little smile on your face, before you look back up at him and he smiles at you. 

 

Then, “Okay,” you tell him in a little breath, before you admit, “It’s partly my fault anyway, I should have been more specific.”

 

He tilts his head slightly in acknowledgement at your words but doesn't say anything. 

 

When you look across to him as he’s sitting by the table eating his breakfast though you notice that he looks more at ease, and so, feeling more relaxed yourself, you smile a little as you close the picnic hamper shut. 

 

By the time you’re both ready though a breeze has blown up and Mycroft just stands there for a moment, looking out through the door, which is slightly ajar, before he looks back at you. Then, “Perhaps we should”- he begins cautiously. 

 

But there’s no way you’re not going out now so, “It’s only a little breeze,” you tell him and so, still looking a bit uncertain, Mycroft takes the lead, carrying the folded beach tent underneath one arm, with you following closely behind as you carry the picnic hamper. 

 

As you step across the sand you soon realize that it is more than just a little breeze however. For the tiny grains of sand, whipped up by the breeze, hover just above the beach’s surface like a dragonfly skimming over a pond, and as you go further across the grit attacks your eyes, making you stumble on the uneven sand and so you stop for a moment and let out a little breath as your hand reaches up towards your eyes to try and get rid of the problem. 

 

Mycroft takes another couple of steps, before he realizes that you've stopped and then he turns back, raising his hand as he does so to shield his eyes, before he lowers it and comes across to join you. “F/N this is getting rather”- he begins, speaking loudly because of the noise caused by the breeze, sea and disturbance of the sand. 

 

But, “I'm fine,” you tell him, feeling annoyed with yourself for having to stop and therefore giving him another reason to not like this trip. 

 

His eyes lock with yours for a moment and then he gives a little nod and clutches at your hand with his, before you both move again, stumbling your way across the sand. 

 

You go a bit further and then you settle in a little dip beneath the sand dunes, which you believe will be more sheltered. 

 

This soon transpires to not be the case though as you soon discover when you fumble to set up the beach tent. 

 

“F/N,” Mycroft huffs out as he straightens up. 

 

“It goes there I'm sure of it,” you mutter in a frustrated fashion as you try to push one of the white poles into one of the other white poles. 

 

“I”-

 

“No, please, I've done this loads of times before, I practised it yesterday too, I'm sure I'm right,” you interrupt him, pushing your hair back now as you straighten up to look at him. 

 

“You may well have,” he begins, “But it’s a different thing entirely on such a blustery day”-

 

“I can do it,” you say now, before you bend back down stubbornly and with a sigh he joins you. 

 

Eventually, and after you finally come to see that you weren't on the right track before, you do get the tent up, and with a little breath of relief you crawl inside it. Mycroft follows a moment later but it’s barely big enough for both of you and it’s not long before he exits it again. The uneasy feeling in your stomach surfaces once more, and so you don’t dwell on it you crawl out after him and suggest once you’re half-out, “We could always go for a walk?” 

 

He peers down at you and then watches as you crawl out of the tent completely, before you stand up. Then, “The tent?” he questions as he raises one of his eyebrows. 

 

You do a quick scan of the beach. There’s a dog walker further down but aside from that it’s completely deserted. You’re the only ones mad enough to be on the beach on such a blustery day. So, “There’s no one around, it’ll be fine, besides we don’t have to go far,” you tell him. Then before he can protest or worry any further you grab at his hand and lead him further down, closer to the sea, so that you might walk beside it. 

 

He seems uncomfortable and ill at ease to begin with, but then, whether because of the sight of the calming sea or your steady presence beside him he begins to relax and slips an arm around your waist. 

 

You smile up at him and shift a little closer to him so that your bodies rub against each other pleasurably as you walk. 

 

He makes a small, pleased sound in his throat, which only grows when you do a little half-spin so that you’re in front of him, before you tug him down to kiss you. 

 

You can taste the tang of the salt from the sea on his lips and his hands climb up your back to push you closer to him. 

 

As you pull apart you don’t realize that it is the last good moment that you will have with him on this trip. If you had you might have kissed him for several more minutes. 

 

But as it is, instead you make your way steadily back to the tent, and when you arrive, since it is nearly lunchtime, you stretch out the picnic rug across the sand, before you begin to get the cucumber sandwiches out of the picnic hamper.

 

The breeze though is still strong and Mycroft does not appreciate the grit flying into his sandwich. Both of you try to make the best of things for as long as you can though, in spite of the fact that the atmosphere between you becomes tense once more. But then, finally Mycroft can’t take any more so he drops the rest of his sandwich down onto the beach with a firm sort of sigh. You flinch at the action and as you see the cucumber slices flopping out onto the beach and all your hard work from this morning being ruined. Then in the next moment he unfolds his legs, clambers to his feet and brushes the sand off his trousers the best he can, before he says, “I'm sorry but I can’t do this any more,” without even looking at you, and then he turns and strides off back towards the cottage. 

 

_“Mycroft!”_ you cry out as you stand up and toss your sandwich aside too. But with the breeze he doesn't hear you. Or perhaps he just doesn't want to. 

 

You sit back down, and then because tears are already rolling down your face just like the waves rolling up the beach in front of you, you turn and crawl back inside the tent. There you curl up and cry freely. 

 

*

 

It is late afternoon and your limbs are stiff from being cramped up in the tent, whilst your throat feels raw as if you've been shouting for the past few hours rather than just crying and thinking very hard. You feel chilled to the bone and as if you might be getting a cold too. So finally, knowing you can’t avoid going back to the cottage forever, you crawl out of the tent, your joints complaining at the sudden movement. Then you stand up and suppose that you better pack the tent up. But then your eyes catch sight of the cucumber sandwiches, half-sunken into the sand and you feel a sudden flare of anger. For you’re fed up of being good and trying to do the right thing. In fact, you’re suddenly tempted to just leave the damned tent there. It’s not like there’s anyone around to steal it. No one comes to the beach in September you think, and you let out a little dark laugh at yourself and your foolishness now. But despite it all you end up dismantling it all anyway, whilst tears roll down your face, the only good thing being the savage kind of pleasure that you feel at pulling it all apart like a child knocking over a sandcastle that they've spent hours on. Then when the tent’s in a mess by your feet you brush your tears away angrily, before you bend down to gather it all together. 

 

Between carrying the mess of the tent and the picnic hamper, still as full and as heavy as it was to begin with, and with the stupid breeze still toying with everything, the journey back to the cottage is a difficult one. You almost fall at one point and you’re tempted to throw everything down there and then and just curl up on the beach and cry some more. But in the end you’re too cold and stubborn to do such a thing so you trudge on. The closer you get though the more butterflies that gather in your stomach and the more you wish that you had stayed in the tent after all. For what if Mycroft’s there, waiting for you by the small table? What are you supposed to say to him? What will he say to you? And you feel sick at the very thought. 

 

But when you drop the picnic basket by the door so that you can tentatively push said door open, you soon see that Mycroft’s not there after all. 

 

*

 

Mycroft, his hair still a little damp from the shower he took not too long ago, stirs by his place at the bedroom window when he hears the door downstairs open. He’d watched you as you made your way back across the sand and his heart had jumped in his chest when you’d nearly fallen. Then he’d let out a little breath of relief at the stubborn expression on your face when you’d carried on. 

 

But now, with you back safe, the uneasy feeling inside him returns and he doesn't know what to do. For should he go downstairs? But you’ll surely come up won’t you? To freshen up if for no other reason. So he goes to lie down on the bed to wait. But you don’t come. So he lifts his head off the pillow to listen for a moment so that he might ascertain what you’re up to. He can hear the slight creak of movement that you’re making and the chink of something, perhaps a cup against the surface of one of the counter’s, and then more movement, but still you don’t come upstairs and he finds it all rather maddening. So he swings off the bed and hesitates for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts until he accepts that they’ll always be a little disorganized where you’re concerned, before he creeps as quietly as he can downstairs. The beat of his heart gets more and more uneven as he gets closer to the bottom but when he does he stills completely. For he can hear your voice talking to someone and that throws him now. So carefully he presses himself against the door. But still he can’t hear your exact words. So tentatively he pushes the door slightly open, just enough for him to be able to hear you, but not enough for you to realize that the door’s open at all. 

 

“…I don’t know,” he hears you say, before, “I just…it just feels like everything’s falling apart…yeah, I know, I really thought it would…maybe…I don’t think so…no, you don’t get it,” and there’s another gap now, but Mycroft instinctively realizes that it’s not just another gap where the person at the other end of the line is saying something. Then you say in a quiet, teary voice, “I-I think Mycroft’s going to break up with me,” and Mycroft’s grip on the door slips now and he nearly falls through it, before he manages to steady himself. Still though as he breathes heavily and his head spins he can’t listen to any more and nor can he bring himself to announce his presence to you. So instead, as the darkness begins to creep in already, he goes back upstairs and lies on the bed once more, this time with his back to the door as he thinks hard. 

 

For how can you even think that? He wonders now. He knows that he hasn't been the most enthusiastic about this little trip but when has he really given you that idea? He wanted to have sex with you this morning for Christ sakes! Heck he would have had sex with you all day if you’d let him. And he huffs out a frustrated breath now. Then he tries to think back to before this weekend and if he’d ever unintentionally given you any signs of not wanting to be with you. He knows he’s been busy, but then again he’s always busy and you've always known that. But he’s tried to be there for you as much as he can. He’s cooked dinner for you and taken you out to restaurants. He’s read poetry to you late at night and held you close when you needed comforting. He’s tried to say the right things and he knows that maybe he doesn't always tell you he loves you as much as he should or stuff like that, but then again you’re not exceptionally vocal about things like that either. It works both ways doesn't it? He thinks firmly, before he has a sudden moment of doubt and wonders if it really is something like that, that’s caused you to think what you do. And he runs a weary hand across his face now. For he’d thought that he’d been doing all right, for him anyway, but apparently not…

 

*

 

He doesn't know when he fell asleep, all he remembers as he wakes up to the darkness of the night is thinking some more, so at some point during that he must have succumbed. He rolls over now onto his side and reaches an arm across to you instinctively, but you’re not there, and so with a frown he sits up in bed now, before he gropes for the light switch. He finds it at last and with the room now illuminated he sees that you’re not anywhere inside it and nor is there the tell tale dip in the bed to show that you have ever been. So, feeling worried now, he swings out of bed and goes out of the room to check the bathroom. The door is locked so, “F/N?” he calls tentatively, not sure what words to expect from you if you are in there or indeed what kind of frame of mind you’ll be in. But no words come at all and so he cautiously places a hand on the doorknob, before he attempts to twist it and it opens easily. He switches the light on and peers inside on the off chance that you’re there after all but it’s empty too. So instead he pads downstairs and pushes the door back, before he stumbles across in the dark apprehensively to find the light switch. Once it’s on he doesn't see you at first and he suddenly fears that you’re outside in the cold night and not taking care of yourself. But then he sees you curled up in the fetal position on the settee fast asleep and he breathes a sigh of relief. Then, after a small hesitation, he goes across to you noiselessly and crouches down beside you. Your face looks calm, your eyes are shut and your lips are slightly parted as they let out your soft breaths. But there’s a tension and sadness about you too and it is this, which makes him feel uncomfortable and which makes him stand up again. Then, making his mind up, he goes back upstairs. He returns downstairs just a moment later, carrying the white duvet from the bed in his arms, and he tucks it around you carefully, hoping as he does so that when you wake it might show you that he does love you after all. Then he steps back a little to check with anxious eyes that he hasn't covered up any part of your face with it, before he sorts out the matter of making his own bed. 

 

In the end he has to make do with a pillow from the bed upstairs and the somewhat sandy picnic rug, which he tugs over him as he settles down on the floor in front of the settee. It is far from comfortable but it will have to do, for there’s no way that he’s going back upstairs now that he knows you intend to sleep down here tonight. So, with one last look at where he knows your face to be in the now darkened room, he wriggles into the least uncomfortable position that he can find and closes his eyes. 

 

*

 

It is early morning when you wake and there is a dull light filtering through the entire room. For a moment you just feel all bleary eyed and confused about how you came to be sleeping on the settee, and how this massive duvet came to be over you, and so you jerk about and flop upwards like a seal. Then you see Mycroft. And everything comes rushing back to you now, what had happened on the beach, how you’d got back to the cottage and not known what to do for the best, before you’d chosen the cowardly route in the end by remaining downstairs, even though it had meant staying in your cold clothes. How you’d phoned Molly to share your woes with someone, before you’d been by yourself again with the silence and your thumping thoughts. How your heart had jumped and your mind had panicked whenever you heard the smallest of sounds. But none of them had ever turned out to be Mycroft. So you sit up a little more now to see him better as you wonder when he’d come downstairs and what he’d thought when he’d seen you on the settee. He’s lying on his back and you realize with a sudden jolt that his eyes are open. Does he know that you’re awake? You wonder, before he must do, you think. You’ve made enough rustling about with the duvet after all. 

 

So, as your breath comes out unevenly you ask, “Mycroft?” tentatively. 

 

He turns his head towards you now, before he props himself up on his arms as he sees you watching him. Then, “Yes?” he replies as evenly as he can in an attempt to protect his heart for as long as possible. 

 

You bite at your lip now because you don’t know what to say next, you _really_ don’t, so in the end you just end up asking, “What are you doing on the floor?”

 

He swallows now and looks a little disappointed as he looks away from you as if he’d been hoping for you to say something else. You cannot know that he’d wanted you to perhaps, at the very least, thank him for keeping you warm with the duvet. Then he looks back at you and says with a forced kind of smile, “Well, it wouldn't have been very gentlemanly of me to allow you to sleep on the most uncomfortable surface now would it?” But still you don’t thank him. You just duck your head down as if you don’t know what to say and that irritates him enough to continue tersely, “I had rather hoped that you’d come upstairs to talk to me upon your return yesterday.”

 

You look at him now as a sudden anger flares through you at the way he’s putting everything on you, then you remind him, “Well I’d rather hoped that you might come downstairs to talk to _me_ ,” and you both just stare at each other now, your gaze a rather pointed one with your eyebrows raised and his a frustrated one with his lips the thinnest they can go, whilst the air between you is rammed with tension as if you’re two complete strangers that have been thrust together on the Tube. 

 

Then, “I did,” Mycroft tells you with a dark kind of triumph in his voice and your brows furrow now, before as you come to think he means whenever he came down in the night when you were fast asleep your face clears somewhat, but, “I don’t mean in the night,” he says conversationally now, then, “I mean when I came down not long after you came back,” he says. 

 

“You never”- you begin with certainty now. 

 

But, “I heard you on the phone,” he says tersely, his tone more cutting, and your face pales a little now, before you swallow. 

 

Then, as you feel angry for being made to feel like you've done something wrong by confiding in a friend you growl, “That was private,” before you fold your arms. 

 

“As I believed our relationship was,” Mycroft says with an icy sharpness now. 

 

But, “Oh don’t pretend to be so much better than me Mycroft,” you snipe back coldly, before you add with an angry kind of slyness, “I didn't hear you complaining when I used to gush about you on the phone to Molly”-

 

“Yes, why don’t you do that any more?” he interrupts you smartly as he raises an eyebrow at you. 

 

But you won’t take that so, “How do you know I don’t?” you ask him, “Have you been bugging my flat again?”

 

“No, you said _‘used to,’_ ” Mycroft says in a know-it-all tone that annoys you greatly and makes you glare at him, before he begins to protest, “And as for bugging your flat you know I only do that because”-

 

“Yes I know, just in case some mass-murderer decides they want to kill me because of my relationship with you. It can’t be, of course, because you don’t trust me?” you reply smartly now as you raise both of your eyebrows at him pointedly. 

 

He sits up properly now and causes the picnic rug to slide down to rest on his hips, then he says, “Well, if you’re going to bring up the matter of trust then I could very well state that you don’t trust me either,” and he pauses now, breathing hard, before as he observes the puzzled look upon your face he raises an eyebrow and reminds you, “The way you flinched when I raised my hand back at your flat?” and you pale a little now, but he’s not finished so, “You thought I’d hit you,” he breathes as he looks away from you momentarily, before he looks back as he finishes, “Despite the fact that I’d have thought that by then you would have known that I could never be capable of doing such a thing.”

 

_“I…”_ you begin, before you trail off because you really don’t know what to say, so in the end you just attempt feebly, “It was just my body reacting, I didn't,” before you correct yourself, “I _don’t_ think you would, not really.”

 

But he doesn't look convinced. He just huffs out a breath and looks away again. Then slowly he turns his head and comes to fix his eyes on yours once more, before he says as evenly as he can manage, “You said on the phone that you thought I’d break up with you.”

 

“You said on the beach that you couldn't do this any more. Aren't those the famous words usually spoken, before a break up?” you reply offhandedly, before you swipe at your cheeks angrily as warm tears slide down your face once more. 

 

Mycroft’s breath hitches in his chest at the sight but he makes no move to comfort you because his mind is so full of what you have just said and he feels so maddened at you for taking such words so seriously, before he feels angry with himself for not having seen the impact they could have had on you earlier. Then, “F/N I didn't mean, I just meant the sand and everything,” he gets out in an exasperated fashion now as he waves his hands about a little, before he combs them through his hair in a frustrated fashion. 

 

“It’s not just that,” you tell him softly, whilst you look at the corner of the white duvet rather than his face, “It’s just, well, everything really,” and you shrug a bit now. 

 

Then, “What does that mean? That you don’t want to be with me any more?” Mycroft asks as he stares at you, his heart beginning to pump more and more unevenly in his chest. 

 

You shrug a little now, before you bend your head further to pick at a loose thread on the duvet. 

 

But, _“F/N?”_ Mycroft pushes you now. 

 

So, “I don’t _know_ what it means!” you explode angrily as your head jerks upwards now to look at him and his breath hitches in his chest, “I just know that whilst I tried to do something really nice for us this weekend you were against it right from the start. You didn't even _try_ to like it”-

 

“That’s not fair,” Mycroft tells you now, but when your eyes flash he only goes on more firmly, “It isn't. You know that this isn't the kind of place that I’d enjoy. You booked it for you, not for us and because _you_ wanted to come here, not because I did”- but he breaks off now as you begin to shake your head incredulously at him. 

 

Then, making your mind up you say, “Well maybe _I_ can’t do this any more,” before you push the duvet back and scramble to your feet. 

 

Then as you tug on your socks and shoes Mycroft says, “F/N, _please_ don’t run away, let’s just talk about this”-

 

But, “What’s the point?” you ask him as you straighten up now, and then you make to step over him to get to the door but he grabs at your leg the moment after you've clambered over him and so you look down at him, then, “It’s like you said, if we don’t trust each other then this will never work,” you tell him, before you tug your leg free from his grasp and move more decisively towards the door. 

 

Yet, “I love you,” he blurts out in one last attempt as your hand reaches to open the door and when you lower your hand again, before you turn back to him he goes on, “You have to know that”-

 

But it is too little, too late and so, “It doesn't matter, whatever you think, whatever I _want_ , you can’t deny that this just isn't working any more…” you tell him desperately and when he doesn't protest that, that isn't the case and when in short you can see the truth of it all written across his face and see the chinks of emotion in his eyes like ice breaking off with a crunch and melting in the ocean, you just smile sadly at him as if to say, _‘See?’_ before you turn and slip out of the door. 

 

There is only a small breeze and though it toys with your hair it doesn't lift up the sand so the walk across the beach is an easy one. 

 

You clamber up the sand dunes and sit amongst the tall spikes of grass, before you stare out at the dull, yellow stained sky. It looks like it might rain, you realize, as the breeze ruffles your hair. And that ironically turns out to be the most that you can think. For it turns out that your mind is too tired to re-hash the problem of Mycroft and you once more. Too tired and too numb. 

 

It isn't long before Mycroft joins you, carrying the picnic rug and a flask of tea. And he glances at you uncertainly, before he props the flask down against the sand and puts the rug gently around your shoulders. 

 

You tug it around yourself more securely so that it won’t slip off. Then, “Thank you,” you tell him softly. 

 

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, before he sits down cautiously next to you. Then he glances at you again, before he busies himself with the flask. He pours a little of the tea into the lid of it, before he passes it to you. 

 

You nod at him in acknowledgement as you take it and then you take a small sip of it. And the taste of something so warm and normal slipping down your throat soothes you for a moment, before you pass it back to him. 

 

He takes a small sip of it, his eyes on you as he does so, but you’re just looking out towards the sea once more. Then he chucks away the rest of the tea in the lid and watches as the drops of liquid seep into the sand for a moment, before he fastens it upon the flask once more and lays it back down. His knees come up to his chest now, whilst his hands link over the edge of them as he wonders what to say to you. In the end he doesn't say anything. 

 

Neither do you. 

 

You both just sit there until finally as the afternoon is close to dawning you turn your head very slightly, but still don’t look at him as you ask, “Is your driver still picking us up this afternoon?”

 

Mycroft swallows and just savours the fact that you’d actually spoken to him for a moment, before he replies as casually as he can, “Yes, at three I believe.”

 

You nod, but you don’t say anything more, and then in one swift movement you get to your feet, before you turn and stride past him back towards the cottage. 

 

Mycroft watches you with a dejected expression on his face as you go. 

 

*

 

Your weekend break, if that’s what you can call it, comes to an official end at three o’ clock when Mycroft’s driver returns with the car. You both put your luggage inside the boot silently and when, as you open the door to get into the back, the driver looks like he might make some sort of joking remark about catching you snuggling up to Mycroft on the way down, Mycroft just glares at him to stop the very words from leaving his lips. But instead of sitting in the middle as you usually do so that you can be beside Mycroft you sit on the other side so that there is a prominent gap between you. Mycroft glances at you and observes the way that you’re stubbornly staring out of the window so that you don’t have to look at him. Then he turns his head away from you so that he might look out of his own resignedly. As he does and the car finally begins to move he can’t help but think how different this journey is already proving to be than the way down, where he had his hand around your waist for much of the time and where your body was something that he could constantly feel against his own…

 

You both only have thoughts like these for company during the long and silent journey. So you feel an exhausted kind of relief when the car finally pulls up outside your flat. 

 

You aren't sure whether or not to say anything, but in the end you feel like it would be rude to just leave silently so you say, “Thank you,” to no one in particular, which causes Mycroft to jerk his head forwards whilst he continues to look out of the window and the driver to nod, before he opens his door so, “It’s fine, I can get my things out myself thank you,” you say, and the driver hesitates now, before his eyes jerk to look at Mycroft’s in the windscreen mirror for further instruction. Mycroft gives a curt nod and so the driver closes his door once more. Then you open yours, swing out, close it behind you and grab your things hurriedly out of the boot. Before you close it once more you sense Mycroft’s eyes watching you intently in the windscreen mirror and your breath catches in your throat now, before you hurriedly close the boot with fumbling fingers. 

 

Mycroft sighs as soon as it is shut and the driver looks at him in the windscreen mirror, but not wanting to talk about it Mycroft just gives him a pointed look, before he goes back to looking out of the window once more. 

 

*

 

The first thing that you do once you close the door of your flat behind you and dump your luggage in your bedroom is to tear the place apart. It isn't out of anger or a sudden desire to destroy something though. More like a need to find all the bugs Mycroft’s hidden so you can toss them out of the window. Let him try to spy on you then, you think. 

 

Then once that problem’s dealt with you change your clothes, unpack and make yourself a well deserved cup of tea. 

 

It’s not until you’re in bed much later on when you roll onto your side to switch off the bedside lamp that your eyes fall on the photo of Mycroft and you that you keep on your bedside cabinet in a wooden frame. You look so happy in it, there’s this big smile on your face and your e/c eyes are sparkling as your h/c hair tumbles freely. Mycroft’s got his arm around your shoulders and though he looks a little more serious there’s a thin smile on his face nonetheless, whilst a spark of something shines in his eyes. You’d got Molly to take it when Mycroft had come around to your flat one Saturday unexpectedly and she’d been there already. You’d been messing around with the camera, before he’d come and as soon as he had you’d grabbed it once more and insisted on a photo. Much to your relief he’d obliged. You hadn't even been dating then, there had just been a lot of flirting and sneaky looks, that had that night, once Molly had gone, developed into something more when he’d kissed you for the first time…The memory of it all makes you feel sad and a little angry now so you reach across and shove the frame face down so that you can’t see all the promise and hope in your eyes any longer. Then you switch the lamp off, before you roll around forcefully, tears already pooling in your eyes as you do so. 

 

*

 

Mycroft’s glad when he gets to his flat and boots his laptop up to see that although you’d clearly intended to get every bug of his out you’d missed one in the living room. Ironically the one you missed is by a romance novel on your bookshelf. So he still has the ability to hear and see one outlook at least. But he can already feel the itch of desire to replace the others filling him, and he senses that although you would not approve, it won’t be something that he’ll be able to stop himself from doing. 

 

Indeed he takes a rare lunch break the following day. Then whilst you’re still at work he takes a taxi to be less inconspicuous across to your flat, before he lets himself in with the spare key that you’d given to him several weeks ago. 

 

He could have sent someone else to plant them, he supposes, as he steps into your familiar flat and closes the door behind him. But then again this is a personal matter and he would not trust anyone but himself with the job. Whilst there is also the fact that the thought of someone else roaming around your flat and rooting through your things to plant them makes his mood turn a dark corner. So, resolved to doing this, he goes across to one of the kitchen counters and tugs the bugs out of his trouser and jacket pockets. Then with his heart beating a little quickly he looks around and begins to plot out the best places to put them. Of course he’s really already decided where he wants them to go and is just procrastinating the act of having to leave your flat. So, as part of doing so, he goes back through past thoughts as he thinks that there’s no sense in putting them where they were before. And that he needs to make sure that as many angles are covered as possible. Then once he’s decided again and planted the majority of them, with just two remaining, something makes him stride across to where your bedroom door is ajar, before he hesitantly pushes it open. At first he thinks that everything is the same but then his eyes catch sight of the frame face down on the bedside cabinet. So he strides across to it now, before he picks it up carefully and his breath hitches in his chest when he sees the two of you together in it. Then, “Oh _F/N_ ,” he murmurs sadly as he strokes your face longingly with one finger and wonders how it ever came to this. To you breaking up with him and him entering your flat without you knowing to plant bugs because they’re the only way that he can guarantee seeing you now, and an ache fills him. Then slowly he places the frame so that it sits upright on the bedside cabinet, before he realizes that he can’t very well leave it like that because then you’ll know he’s been there. So, as a small sigh escapes him, his eyes find your smiling expression one last time, before he returns the frame to the position that he found it in. Then as he turns away from it desperately he plants the final couple of bugs in your bedroom, before after making sure that he hasn't left anything behind, other than what he intended to, he leaves your flat. 

 

*

 

Two long weeks pass. Two weeks of Mycroft checking feverishly that you haven’t discovered the bugs in your flat and feeling grateful every time he sees that you haven’t. Two weeks of him coming home every night and the first thing he does being to boot up his laptop and load up all the live footage of you. And sometimes as you whistle or hum along to a song you like he closes his eyes and he can almost believe that you’re in the room with him. The very thought always makes him smile but then every time he opens his eyes and remembers the distance between you once more the sad feeling that he’s barely been without since that weekend returns to him. You seem to be doing a bit better than him though. He’s seen you smiling and laughing and grabbing your coat as you go out with Molly for the evening. But then again you were the one who broke up with him he supposes. And it’s not like he doesn't want you to be happy, he muses, it’s just that part of him wishes that you’d just give him one sign that you need him, that you want him still. If you did he’d be there like a shot. But instead you just seem to be carrying on. And all he can do is watch and mourn you like you’re some ghost, wandering through your flat and haunting the corridors of his mind palace at the same time. 

 

*

 

One night he gets home just after seven o’ clock, feeling relieved to enter the quiet sanctuary of his flat after a long, tiring, frustrating day at work. The only thing that would make it better, he knows, is if you were there waiting for him and ready to work the tension out of his shoulders, before he’d then reward you with a kiss and perhaps something more. And an involuntary groan escapes him now, before his eyes flick open and he supposes that tonight, like every other night for the past two weeks or so, he’ll just have to make do with what he can. So he boots up the laptop and loads up the footage from the cameras, which are focused in the living room, just in time to see you sending a message to someone on your phone. His hand jerks automatically towards his jacket pocket where his own phone is now, before he shakes his head a little irritably at himself. For of course you won’t be sending him a message. Then his eyes focus on you entirely once more as you grab your coat and handbag and go out of your flat. You must be going somewhere with Molly, he thinks, before he wonders if you mention him to her any more. Then, readying himself for a long night of waiting for you to come home safe, he goes across to make himself a cup of tea. 

 

*

 

It is hours later and although Mycroft has left the light in the room on he still finds himself somehow jerking awake as his head almost slips off where it’s been resting on his hand. Then his eyes fall upon the still half-full cup of tea, before he frowns at it. For it has long gone cold by now. So with one last cursory glance at his laptop screen to check if you’re back [you aren't] he gets up and goes across to make a fresh cup of tea. Once he’s switched the kettle on he then checks the time. It’s nearly half-one. Usually you’re back by now and he feels a stirring of worry begin to form in his mind. It’s a Tuesday too so supposedly you've got work tomorrow he thinks, and he shifts uncomfortably now, before the kettle comes to boil. So he reaches his hand towards it, but then, over the noise of it he hears a laugh, _your_ laugh, and he starts violently, before he switches the kettle off at once so that it will stop its dreadful racket and hurries back to sit by the table. The lock clicks open and he watches with his heart beating uncomfortably in his chest as you switch on the light, before you enter a little wobbly and drop your handbag onto the floor. You've clearly been drinking and he frowns now, but you've got home at least, he thinks, and he can see that you’re tipsy more than drunk as you shrug your coat off and toss it towards the settee. But then his analysing of you stops because you’re not alone. 

 

A man enters after you with a grin, his dark hair a little free from its gel and his dark eyes shining with mirth. He’s smartly dressed, Mycroft sees, in black trousers and a light blue shirt with the top two buttons undone and Mycroft’s heart clenches painfully in his chest now as he remembers how he’d led your fingers to undo his own top two buttons all that time ago in the cottage. And smartly dressed men must be something you go for, he can’t help but think now, before he feels grimly pleased when he realizes that he is at least taller than the man you’re with now. Then, in the next moment, he lets out a sharp little breath as, still giggling, you swing around and kiss the man. The man responds eagerly and Mycroft can’t help but feel a little sick as the man’s hands go around your back to support you and stop you from falling over, before he feels practically hollow as your fingers go up to undo the rest of the man’s shirt buttons as you continue to kiss him sloppily in between releasing breathy little giggles that make Mycroft’s body tingle all over because he remembers how he used to be the man standing in front of you when you giggled like that. He used to be the one feeling your warm breath against his skin and seeing your eyes shine and so many other things. Then it gets even worse; for once the shirt buttons are undone, instead of slipping the garment off completely, the man’s hands go up to cup your breasts over the deep blue dress that you’re wearing and Mycroft lets out a dark growl at the same time as you pull away from the man and let out a little breath. Mycroft hopes that you’ll put an end to such nonsense now by telling the man that he’s gone too far and that he’ll have to leave. For Mycroft has never seen you with this man before after all and it took weeks, before Mycroft himself was allowed to touch you there. 

 

But instead you just say, “Not here,” in a breathy kind of way, a silly smile upon your face [it’s silly because up until now Mycroft had thought that it was purely reserved for him] before you grab at the man’s hand and lead him to your bedroom. 

 

Mycroft’s heart swoops down in his chest now as the pair of you vanish from all the cameras that are covering the living room. And he hesitates now but he can’t very well stop with all the horrific ideas that are going through his head. So he switches to the cameras that cover your bedroom and drums his fingers against the table impatiently as he waits for them to load. 

 

When they do he immediately pulls a grotesque face, for the man’s shirt is completely off now, on the floor by your bed as it happens, and he is half-leaning over you, your hands combing through his hair, your mouth making little gasping noises as you kiss him. 

 

Mycroft had known, of course, what your intentions were as soon as you led the man to your bedroom, he’d seen that look on your face before after all, and going to the bedroom, of all places, could only mean one thing. But he can’t help but feel angry, not just because this man suddenly has access to all of you, and Mycroft shudders a little now as you begin to wriggle out of your dress and the man’s lips move from yours to suck upon your shoulder, whilst your eyes pop as they do so, but angry because you’re just giving him that access so easily as if you don’t even matter. 

 

His eyes drift away from the pair of you now instinctively, before they settle upon your bedside cabinet. And it is then that he realizes that the frame with the photo of you and him inside it is missing. It was there just yesterday though, Mycroft thinks, for he’d seen it there, just before you went to bed, though it had admittedly still been face down. And he wonders now if you’d somehow known that you were going to have sex tonight with someone who wasn't him and removed it deliberately. But then he hears you gasp out and his thoughts cut off as his eyes go back to you instantly, before he pulls another face at the sight of the man’s lips on your neck. 

 

And as more clothes are removed and your gasps get louder and your body wriggles more frantically underneath the man’s, Mycroft finds it harder and harder to watch, not least because the sight of the man’s pale buttocks going up and down as he begins to pump in and out of you makes him feel sick to his stomach. Not to mention angry that you’re being so reckless and risking your own health by having unprotected sex with a man who’s past history you have no idea of. And so with his shoulders hunched and his stomach writhing Mycroft scrunches his eyes shut so that he can at least block out the sight of it even if he can’t block out the sound of your breath getting more and more ragged and the man’s frantic mutters as you both get closer to climaxing. 

 

Then, _“Mycroft!”_ you cry out as you reach the top and Mycroft’s eyes flick open, whilst a little startled breath escapes him. 

 

But in the next moment he feels tense again as the man stops thrusting and asks, “Mycroft? Who the fuck is Mycroft?”

 

And Mycroft swallows now, his heart thudding in his chest, as you gasp out with tears visible on your face, “I-I I'm sorry, I didn't mean, I”- before you try to sit up, but the man pushes you back down sharply and Mycroft gets to his feet in a flash as you cry out in a pain filled whimper. 

 

“There was I thinking we had something nice starting up, but I was just a quick fuck for you wasn't I? You silly bitch,” the man says, but Mycroft doesn't hang around to hear your reply, he just leaves everything where it is and dashes out of his flat. 

 

Everything seems to happen so slowly from that point on. Starting with the lift, which seems to take an age to arrive and Mycroft’s finger presses against the button impatiently, whilst he mutters, “Come on…come on…” under his breath. Then when he finally bursts out onto the pavement he manages to hail a cab within a matter of a minute, but it seems to take an agonizingly long time for it to actually pull up by the curb. Still when it finally comes he throws himself inside it and then hurriedly gives the driver the location, before he urges him to get there as fast as he can. 

 

‘As fast as he can’ is still not fast enough for Mycroft’s liking though and his heart can’t help but clench up in a panic as his mind conjures all sorts of horrific images as to what might be happening to you at that very moment. Might that man be raping you? Or hitting you? Or even worse? And he wonders now if he should call the police and his hand reaches up to get his phone out of the pocket of his shirt now, but in the end he lowers it once more. For he senses that getting the police involved would be more of a hindrance than help and in any case he is nearly there now himself. 

 

So as soon as he arrives he throws some money at the cab driver and tells him to keep the change. Then he hurries out of the cab and up the stone steps. He gains access to the building a moment later and then he runs towards the lifts, but they’re all out of order. So after a curse leaves his mouth he darts back to find the stairs instead. And once he does he doesn't stop until finally he’s outside the door to your flat.

 

He’s breathless now but he still has enough air in his lungs to curse himself with when he realizes that he hasn't brought the spare key to your flat with him. 

 

But before he can gain access by knocking, the door is flung open before him. 

 

It’s the man. His trousers are back on thank God and his shirt has been haphazardly done up so that the buttons don’t match up where they should, giving him a rather lopsided appearance. And once he catches sight of Mycroft he does a little double take, before in one swift movement his fist connects with Mycroft’s nose. Mycroft lets out a cry of surprise now and his hands fling up to his nose, before as he draws them away once more he observes that his nose must be bleeding for there are specks of blood on his hands. It doesn't feel like it’s broken though and he knows what a broken nose feels like because Sherlock did such damage to him once. Though that is another story entirely. 

 

The man looks a little satisfied as Mycroft and he eye each other once more. Then he says with an air of smug casualness, “I wouldn't touch her if I were you mate, she’s a whore,” before he makes to walk off. 

 

But before he can take more than a couple of steps Mycroft grabs him by the front of his shirt and jerks him to the side, before he slams him against the wall. The man blinks for a moment in shock, his lips slightly parted, and Mycroft lets him recover for a moment so that he might have the man’s full attention when he says in a soft, threatening voice, “If you ever come near F/N again, or try to contact her in any way, than I will make it my personal mission to make every aspect of your life my business. Am I clear?” and the man hesitates now, before he gives a little nod, so Mycroft gives him one final warning by pushing him against the wall as hard as he can, before he releases his grip on him entirely and says, “Good.”

 

The man just stares at him for a moment, struggling for breath briefly, and then he punches Mycroft again and jogs off, before Mycroft can respond. 

 

Mycroft clutches at his nose again but then a voice in his head whispers your name and he lowers his hands hurriedly, before he darts anxiously into your flat. 

 

It’s empty and silent and he can’t see you anywhere so his eyes dart naturally to your bedroom door, which is slightly ajar as he calls anxiously, _“F/N?”_

 

But there’s no response and no sound of any movement either, so, feeling even more alarmed, he takes a couple of steps towards it, before he stops as the door opens slowly. 

 

His breath hitches in his chest as you peer hesitantly out, wearing nothing but your white dressing gown, before he watches as you cross to the middle of the room so that you can see him better. 

 

Then, “M-Mycroft? W-What are you doing here?” you ask, your arms folded against your chest, your face covered with dry tears, and if he’s not mistaken your body is trembling too. 

 

So he ignores your question and asks instead, “F/N are you hurt?” 

 

You swallow now, then, “I-I'm fine, I just, what are you doing here Mycroft?” you get out, your tone growing a little suspicious in those last words. 

 

But Mycroft, quite rightly, doesn't believe that you’re fine so he steps forwards a little now, before he asks urgently, “Did he hit you?” 

 

“I-I,” you begin and he raises an eyebrow at you so you confess, “It’s nothing really, I'm just a bit sore”-

 

“Where?” Mycroft interrupts you as he scans the whole of your body with his eyes as if he might be able to pinpoint the location of such pain just by doing so. 

 

But you flush now and that makes him feel surprised, before you say softly, _“Inside,”_ as you duck your head, before you raise your eyes slowly to look at him again to gauge his reaction. 

 

A light blush dusts its way across Mycroft’s cheeks and all he can manage is, _“Oh,”_ softly, before he gets himself together enough to ask, “But you don’t need to go to the hospital? Because I can come with you, and perhaps that would be the best thing to do you know, even if you don’t think you need to”-

 

But, “I'm fine,” you interrupt him now, before you say a little accusingly, “You planted more bugs didn't you? That’s how you knew to come now.”

 

Mycroft swallows now, before, “It’s a damn good job I did,” he blurts out, before he can’t help but add, “What with you bringing people like that back. What on earth were you thinking?” 

 

You turn away from him now and go to sit by the small, square kitchen table with a sigh. 

 

He follows you and goes to sit opposite you. Then for a moment he just looks at you, whilst your eyes fix on the corner of the table. But it isn't long, before he can’t help but ask you in a rather desperate tone, “Don’t you realize how much you matter?”

 

It’s your turn to ignore his question now as you ask him quietly, “How much did you see?” with your eyes still glued to the table as you hope frantically in your mind that he only saw a little. 

 

But, “Pretty much everything,” he informs you stonily and you tug your dressing gown tighter around you now as your heart sinks and you feel ashamed. 

 

“Then you must have heard what he said?” you ask as you force yourself to meet his gaze, but he just looks at you now with a questioning expression on his face, so you go on as you practically hug your chest with your arms now, “About it being just a ‘quick fuck’?” and a little breath escapes Mycroft’s mouth now, before he nods so you conclude, “Well he was right,” heavily. And Mycroft just looks at you now so you bite at your lip and run a quick hand through your hair, before you go on, “It _was_ just a quick fuck for me,” and Mycroft’s lips part now but before he can say anything you stumble on hurriedly, “I just, I just wanted to forget about you but I messed even that up,” and more tears spill down your face now as you look down. Mycroft swallows and he feels like he wants to say something, he just doesn't know what, so he feels rather relieved when in the end you go on as you look at him, “Do you know why I broke up with you?” and Mycroft shakes his head now as his heart skips a beat in his chest so, “It wasn't just one thing, it was so many…sometimes you make me feel so _stupid_ , " and Mycroft swallows now, then, "You don’t even have to say anything; you just do it with a look. And then there are those damn bugs, and I know you ultimately mean well with them, but that’s not trust Mycroft”-

 

“So would you have rather I hadn't come tonight?” Mycroft interrupts to ask you now, his tone an enquiring one. 

 

And, “Of course I'm glad you came,” you tell him, but you still sound a little frustrated so, “Is this how it’s going to be though, whether we’re together or not, you watching me? And whenever I have a bad day, or something goes wrong, you coming round to be with me?” 

 

“Would you prefer that I didn't care for you?” Mycroft asks as lightly as he can, but there’s an undercurrent of tension there too. 

 

“Of course not, but it just makes everything more complicated,” you tell him, before you get to the crux of the thing when you huff out, “How am I supposed to move on from you if you’re always in my life? If you’re always watching me?”

 

There’s a small silence now, one where you gaze into Mycroft’s eyes desperately and where he leans back a little in his chair to observe you more with unblinking eyes, before he says, “Maybe I don’t want you to move on,” and you tilt your head at him curiously now so, “Maybe I've spent the past two weeks wishing that you’d never broken up with me and hoping that you’d give me some sign that you were missing me. But until tonight I didn't see any.”

 

“Just because I wasn't sobbing over you every day doesn't mean I wasn't missing you”-

 

“I think I’d have preferred the sobbing to you going off and having unprotected sex with men you've just met,” Mycroft can’t help but interrupt you now, and you sigh a little but he goes on, “That’s another thing, first thing in the morning you’ll have to take the morning after pill or whatever they’re calling it these days”-

 

“I don’t think I’ll have to actually,” you interrupt him with a small, wan kind of smile, because right now this is the only silver lining that you can take from the night.

 

But, “What do you mean?” Mycroft begins with a frown and you can see him getting more and more wound up, before he blurts out, “Of _course_ you’ll have to! If you think I'm going to risk you having a child by a man like that then”-

 

“He didn't come,” you say now. 

 

_“What?”_ Mycroft asks you, annoyed at being cut off mid-lecture and his face is filled with a frustrated kind of confusion. 

 

So, “He didn't _come_ ,” you repeat, deliberately highlighting the last word.

 

And finally Mycroft understands and his expression changes to one of relief as he breathes out, _“Oh,”_ before he says, “Good,” more firmly because he wants to be the only one who has that privilege inside you. 

 

You give a small smile at his reaction, before your face becomes a little more serious. Then, “I have missed you, you know,” you tell him, your eyes on his. 

 

So, “Will you give our relationship another chance then?” he asks. 

 

You think about it now, then, “Things will have to change if I do,” you tell him and he nods tentatively now, so to show him how serious you are you add more firmly, “The bugs will have to go for good for one thing.”

 

“But if something were to happen to you”- Mycroft protests. 

 

And, “Do you really think that if someone took me against my will and held me somewhere that between yourself and your brother you wouldn't be able to find me?”

 

Mycroft’s face softens for a moment at your faith in him, but then, “It’s about the time it would take though. If someone held you and there were cameras here then perhaps with the footage it would lead me to find you sooner. Without them it could take far longer and you could be…” he trails off now and there’s a very pregnant pause. 

 

Then, “But what you’re saying, it’s all down to maybes. Maybe something might happen. Maybe I might be taken. Maybe having cameras would help. But maybe they wouldn't,” and whilst Mycroft swallows you look away for a moment, before you look back at him as you go on, “I put up with them before because”-

 

“You didn't want to argue with me because you thought that if you did I might break up with you,” Mycroft supplies. 

 

And, _“Yes,”_ you nod. 

 

“Then in that case you have to trust me too when I say that I've never had any intentions of breaking up with you and nor do I ever intend to,” Mycroft tells you more firmly, before at your slightly uncertain expression he asks, “Do you think that I don’t _know_ what everyone’s been saying?” and you just stare at him now, “My own _brother_ among them? That you are just a distraction and a phase to me? When really you've always been so much more than that. I've heard Lestrade and Molly worrying that it will never last because _apparently_ I can’t feel those sorts of things”-

 

“Molly’s _always_ been very supportive”-

 

“Oh come _on_ F/N, she’s only supportive in front of you because you've never had eyes for my brother and so she can harbour her little crush safely without fearing that you’ll ever provide competition for her,” Mycroft scoffs now in an exasperated fashion and you frown at him. So seeing that he’s losing you again he goes on hurriedly, “Anyway I was trying to tell you how much I love you,” and as you smile a little now he continues more firmly, “If tonight has shown me anything it is how much you under value yourself,” and your eyes lock with his now and you’re barely breathing as he goes on fervently, “You deserve so much more than a quick fuck, my dear. You deserve to be made love to.”

 

And you hold each other’s gazes now, then, “By you, you mean?” you ask him. 

 

“If you’d like,” he says as lightly as he can, and as you shift your position a little your dressing gown gapes open more and he can’t help but look down and release a little breath at the way it has exposed the curve of your chest. Then his eyes go back to yours and he can tell that you know where he just looked but that you don’t mind and he’s about to stand up now and go around to you-

 

But, “I feel so dirty,” you blurt out because you can still feel the sweat and the smell of the other man’s skin upon you. 

 

“Then let us wash him out together,” Mycroft says huskily. 

 

You hesitate a moment, then, _“Okay,”_ you breathe. 

 

He stands up slowly so as to not frighten you, and then he comes around to you in two graceful movements, before he crouches down before you. Then his eyes lock with yours for a moment and he places a hand around the back of your neck to draw you to him, before he kisses you tenderly. He pulls away a moment later, just withdrawing his head far back enough so that he can look into your eyes again as he whispers, “Let me remind you what sex _should_ be like,” and your heart skips a beat in your chest but you nod, and then his hand goes down to clutch at yours, before you both stand up together. 

 

He looks at you again then, for further reassurance that this is something that you want too, and then when you don’t protest he begins to lead you slowly to your bedroom. 

 

But when you’re nearly there you stop and he turns back to look at you. 

 

Then you bite your lip, before you can’t meet his gaze as you tell him, “You’ll have to gentle though.”

 

And he lets out a little breath at the reminder of what that man did to you, before his face softens as he looks at you. Then he goes to you and tentatively pushes your dressing gown apart until your breasts are exposed, before he bends his head and peppers a trail of kisses down each one, causing your breath to hitch in your chest, his hands coming up to cup them as he does so, and he can feel your nipples harden underneath his touch. Then, “Have I ever been anything but?” he asks you quietly as he raises his head to look at you once more and you smile at him as you feel more reassured. 

 

So he leads the way once more and then steps into your bedroom tentatively. It smells of the man and the duvet is still rumpled so Mycroft frowns, before he goes across and tugs it off the bed completely, before he hurls it to the floor. Then he looks back to see that you’re still standing tentatively by the door and he watches as your eyes flicker with a thousand memories of the man’s rough treatment of you. 

 

So, “Why don’t you lie on the bed my dear?” Mycroft suggests, taking the lead, and you swallow, before you nod. 

 

Then he goes across to get a condom out of the drawer where he knows they’ll be. But as he does he notices that something new is in the drawer-the frame with the photo of you and him inside it. So he takes it out and puts it upright again on the bedside cabinet. Then he tilts it with his hands to get it into the exact position that it was in before and when it’s perfect he gives it a satisfied look, before he takes out a condom and places it ready on the bedside cabinet, just in front of the frame. 

 

But now on the bed you grab at his wrist and he looks at you, before his breath catches in his chest as he sees that you’re completely naked, the dressing gown now on the floor. 

 

Then you let go of him, before you remind him, “I thought we were supposed to be getting rid of him together?” and his brow furrows now as he keeps his eyes firmly fixed on your own for the moment, then you go on, “We can’t very well do that if the protection’s getting in the way.”

 

_“But”-_ he begins, despite the fact that his body betrays him as his heart quickens its pace.

 

“The morning after pill remember?” you remind him and he smiles a little now, before he eyes the condom one last time as if he’s still in two minds about the whole thing, before he slips his shoes and socks off and then goes around to join you on the bed. 

 

He sits down on the edge of it and begins to unbutton his shirt, but he feels something press against his back a moment later and he freezes up completely as his breath catches in his throat. Then, “Let me,” you tell him as you swing around him now to crouch before him, your hands going up to undo the buttons and he can feel his erection already straining against his trousers as he looks at you. 

 

Then once you’re done you stand up in between his legs and as you push the shirt off his milky pale beautiful skin your leg presses tight against his hardness and he groans, his head already beginning to spin. 

 

But this is supposed to be about you and making you feel better he reminds himself, so as your hands curve down his shoulders and then tangle through the thin covering of hair that he has on his chest he takes your hands loosely in his and murmurs, “Let me,” and understanding you go back to lie on the bed. 

 

A moment later he tentatively comes to rest his body on yours and then he kisses your lips gently and you let out a little moan as he does so, before you wrap your hands around the back of his neck to draw him closer. He pulls away a moment later and goes to trail several kisses down the curve of your neck and you arch your body against his and cause him to let out a little breath. Then his attention goes to your breasts once more and he caresses and kneads them with his hands in between kissing them as your hands comb through his hair. Your breaths begin to grow more and more ragged at the sensation of it all already, and wanting to take things slow he stops what he’s doing a few moments later and moves to kiss down your stomach instead. Your whole body’s craving more though so when he returns to kiss your lips once more instead of going any lower you jerk your head away from him and gasp breathily, “Your trousers,” whilst your hands attempt to fumble in between you both to clutch onto his belt without much success. 

 

But, “All in good time my dear,” he teases, his warm breath trickling like honey into your ear and you groan in frustration and thrust your body upwards against his, before he goes to work on your neck once more, making you gasp and cry out with desire. 

 

He skips your breasts altogether on his next travels down your body and just rubs his hands up and down your hips instead, making you wriggle about a bit as he finds your ticklish spot, before you can’t take any more and sit up a little. Then you cup his head with the back of your hands and draw him down, not to your lips, but to your breasts instead. He obliges and straddles himself upon your hips as he kisses them once more, before he takes one nipple in his mouth. You cry out and press your body tight against his once more, and his hands grab onto your back as he finds his balance once more, whilst his mouth releases your nipple and lets out a little breath, though his eyes still remain on your breasts. So you tilt his head up with your finger and then you’re kissing each other again, only this time it’s more frantic and desperate with your bodies pushing against each other’s as you do, before you pull away from each other slowly. Your eyes are on his again and then your hand is reaching for his belt and this time he lets you. So you undo it slowly and tug it free from his trousers, before in one swift movement you toss it on top of your dressing gown and his shirt on the floor. Your eyes go to his once more and then your hands begin to push his trousers down, but as they do they catch against his erection and he groans so you look at him again. But not wanting you to stop his hands come to rest over yours and then together you pull both his trousers and underwear off. 

 

You kiss each other again, your tongues exploring each other’s mouths this time, and then when you pull apart, before you can get too carried away he begins to ask, “Are you sure about the protection?”-

 

“Yes,” you breathe, before you kiss him again and he groans into your mouth as your hand reaches down to wrap around him, before his head spins as you pump him rhythmically with your hand. 

 

Then, “My dear,” he gets out breathlessly as he draws back from you, “You’ll have to desist or I'm afraid I’ll peak rather too early.”

 

“That’s rather the point isn't it?” you ask him with something firm but mischievous in your eyes and he lets out another little breath as your hand continues its work. 

 

Then, “Yes,” he agrees languidly, “Eventually that is _exactly_ the point, but not until I'm inside you,” and as your hand ceases its teasing movements now he lunges forwards slightly to nibble on your ear. 

 

You release a little breath at the force of him and your hands go up to clutch onto his chest to steady yourself, whilst one of his goes to your back to further support you and the other caresses your breasts again, and with his ear so close to your mouth he feels a little thrill each time your breaths grow more ragged under his touch. 

 

He kisses your lips again and then when you draw your head back you get out, “Now, please now,” in between frantic breaths. 

 

So he looks at you for a moment, before he trails down another line of kisses against your neck as you buck your hips against him. Then he draws away from you and adjusts himself briefly, before he buries himself inside you. 

 

You both gasp out at the sensation and as you screw your eyes shut he worries that he’s hurt you and that he should have been gentler. But then you buck your hips against him once more causing him to topple over you and you moan out.

 

So, “My dear?” he asks anxiously, his head now by your shoulder. 

 

But then you’re eyes are open once more and you’re telling him, _“Move.”_

 

So he kisses your shoulder briefly, before he slowly begins to move in and out of you, watching your face the whole time, for although he’s very much aware of his own body wanting to speed things up he has to remember that you’re more delicate tonight. 

 

You can follow his train of thought though and so you pull up his hands so that they rest on your breasts once more, before you say, _“More.”_

 

He swallows now, but then his hands instinctively begin to rub at your breasts and as you moan out his lips go to your neck, before he increases his pace. 

 

Then you’re both gripping onto each other and gasping and groaning out, before you come first and yell out, _“Mycroft!”_ in one ragged breath, for the second time that night, only this time it’s right. 

 

And, _“F/N!”_ he cries out a moment later against your shoulder as his breaths shudder in his chest. 

 

Then as both of your hearts slowly lessen their frantic pace he looks into your eyes and brushes back a piece of damp, sweaty hair from your forehead as he says, “There,” with a quiet kind of triumph in his tone, and you know exactly what he means. For the man is gone now and it is just Mycroft and you once more, the way it should be. 

 

In the next moment he slides out of you carefully and then clambers off you, before he moves so that he is lying on his side, his body facing you so you turn towards him. Then, “Wasn't that so much better than a quick fuck?” he asks you, still a little breathless from the whole thing. 

 

You nod, before you trace his jaw line with your finger and then, “So what do we do now?” you ask, and he knows that you’re not talking about either cleaning yourselves up a bit or going to sleep.

 

So, “We try again,” he tells you. 

 

Again you nod, but, “The bugs?” you ask him now as your skin cools down. 

 

He looks at your neck rather than your eyes as he bites at his lip a little. Then, “If you were to allow me just one or two”-

 

_“Mycroft,”_ you groan now, before you sit up and draw your knees to your chest. 

 

So he sits up too, before he says, “F/N please, I _can’t_ just leave you so unprotected, surely you have to see that?”

 

“But I can’t breathe freely with them, surely _you_ have to see that?” you protest as you look back at him. 

 

And he meets your eyes desperately now, then, “Just one in the living room?” he attempts and you huff out a breath now so he continues frantically, “You’d know where it was and though it would cover most of the room you’d have little spaces here and there where it wouldn't, so you’d still have your privacy.”

 

Then, knowing that you’re not going to win this one completely you say, _“Fine,”_ and at once he looks relieved, “But Mycroft, I _swear_ if I ever find more than that one then”-

 

“You have my word that it’ll be just the one,” he says swiftly, before he takes your hand in his and brushes his lips against your knuckles delicately. 

 

You smile then, “And I promise in return I’ll do my best to trust you more completely.”

 

“I can’t ask for more than that,” he says as you both lie down once more and you snuggle into him. 

 

Then just as you close your eyes and feel ready to fall asleep in his arms you have a thought and so you open them again, before you jerk your head back a little so that you can look at him as you say, “Hang on, if you saw everything before then that means just now, what we did, was”-

 

“ _Ah_ , in that case I think we just unintentionally made a sex tape my dear,” he breathes now and you snort, before he adds humorously, “But, in fairness, if anyone broke into my flat just now and saw it then they would have had a far better show than the one I had earlier,” and you let out a little breathless giggle now, which causes him to smile, before you bury your head into his chest. Then, “It’s true,” he protests, “His buttocks were so pale, I don’t know how you could have ever”-

 

“ _You’re_ pale,” you splutter out now, still giggling as you draw back from him a little. 

 

“Not _that_ pale,” he argues with mischief in his eyes, before he can’t help but add, “As you well know my dear,” and you giggle again. 

 

Then you hit his chest playfully with your hand and say, “Shush you,” before you lean up to kiss his lips once more. 

 

“Only if you make me,” he says naughtily as you break apart and you grin at him, before you snuggle into him again and close your eyes as his arm moves to curve around you more securely. 

 

Then, feeling more at peace than you have done in the last few weeks you let sleep claim you as you lie snug in his arms.


End file.
